


Mechs Kinktober 2020

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Series: self indulgent mechs oneshots [7]
Category: High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Body Worship, Cock Rings, Deepthroating, Double Penetration, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Threesome, Trans Male Character, face fucking, requests welcome, t4t rights tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: It is what it says on the tin, lads
Relationships: Ashes O'Reilly/Gunpowder Tim, Drumbot Brian/Galahad (High Noon Over Camelot), Drumbot Brian/Galahad (High Noon Over Camelot)/Gunpowder Tim, Drumbot Brian/Gunpowder Tim, Galahad (High Noon Over Camelot)/Gunpowder Tim (The Mechanisms), Lyfrassir Edda/Marius von Raum, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: self indulgent mechs oneshots [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860787
Comments: 42
Kudos: 93





	1. Quickie—Lyf/Marius

**Author's Note:**

> Just thought this'd be fun to do, idk. I'm not following anyone's specific list, just kinda bouncing around several and cherrypicking things I like. And unless I get real :eyes: about something, these will likely get no longer than about 500 words. That's it parameters-wise, enjoy yeehaw <3
> 
> (Edit: bc I'm seeing freaks in my kudos, and with some recent shit that's shown up in the E tag,,,,,,,,, ummmmm lmao yeah anyway basically i guess I should say if u associate w the user @a*nt-z*lda, you are not welcome to my work in any capacity, kindly fuck off)

“This is… hi- _ighly_ unseemly.”

Stammered uselessly as Lyf makes no effort to dissuade Marius sinking to his knees, his lips, formerly latched to the tender pulse of Lyf’s throat, tracing the descent with ticklish pressure down Lyf’s sternum, their stomach, till finally Marius comes to a rest at the band of their trousers. All wicked smile and flicking tongue.

“Yeah?” He hums, his hands threatening bruises as they curl around Lyf’s hips. 

They’re in some storage bay off the main quarters of the ship, not exactly the most obvious of places, but hardly private, either. Lyf had been strolling by, engrossed in some readouts they’d been delivering to Nastya. 

Then abruptly, there was Marius, dragging them up against the wall. Then lips and teeth and hot, heavy breaths, which pant now against the front of their trousers, Marius non-too ashamedly making clear his intentions. As if the filthy things he’d growled against Lyf’s jaw weren’t explicit enough. And as if Lyf truly means to refuse him.

They spare a withering glare for the doctor, which only earns more canine to his grin, more hunger in the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly.

Possessed of a sudden, vicious want, Lyf seizes him by the hair, holding him in place.

“Make it quick, von Raum. I’ve better things to be doing.”

Marius all but purrs, raking his tongue along his incisors.

“We’ll see about that, Edda.”

The practiced work he makes of Lyf’s trousers merits comment, certainly, something snarky enough to get the doctor blushing as he’s occasionally victim to, but he’s sucking Lyf’s clit between his lips before Lyf can even formulate a retort, and the moment expires to the discrete sensation of Marius’s mouth, only. Tongue and lips all over again, and Lyf groans, arching forward to meet the pressure, the precision.

“ _Fuck_ ,” they exhale, and Marius moans his concession straight through their core. 

It’s hardly intense, their orgasm, more a sweetly fluttering thing, but that’s only because they come before Marius can get a finger inside them. It’s still fucking good though, and Lyf pins Marius in place as they grind slowly against his face, riding the last few crests to completion.

“Suppose I’ll need to pay that back in kind,” they mutter, once they’ve let Marius fall onto his heels.

“If you’d like,” the doctor replies noncommittally, but Lyf sees right through the ruse, and they none too gently shove their shin between his thighs.

“I’ll not be indebted to you,” they say, coolly, amending their trousers and shirt as Marius fails to stifle a groan.

“Careful I don’t charge you twice, Edda.”

Lyf just smirks, retracts their leg, and, combing three fingers through their hair, makes to turn back into the hall.

“Careful what you aim to collect, doctor,” and even if they’ve no idea what the fuck they mean by that, the wanting look it leaves on Marius’s face is reward enough.


	2. Double Penetration/Messy/Threesome—Brian/Tim/Galahad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm combining three days bc i have had a real big ole spoon crash lmao  
> this is based off my hnoc fic, bc thats taking forever to get to the good bits, but its not context heavy, so this is perfectly enjoyable without knowing that  
> also im exhausted as i post this so like, i pray to fuck there's no egregious mistakes, pls point any out if u see em, i am going to fkn bed now <3

“How would you like him, my Prophet?”

Inquired with as much warmth as Galahad has thus far failed to afford Tim, his growling threats turned a decidedly deferential timbre in Brian’s audience. Almost so that Tim would laugh were he less addled of his own belt cinched round his mouth. As well the need to behave appropriately—lest they leave him aching and unused at the foot of Brian’s altar—proves a similarly effective deterrent, and Tim craves at this point, his whole body—where they’ve lavished bruise upon kiss upon bite upon sigh—a live wire of want. Only a little more of this debasing preamble, he reminds himself, and he’ll have what he needs. 

“Just there,” Brian answers, “if you’d be so kind, Father. On his knees for now, don’t you think?”

Tim, of course, is afforded no opinion on the matter, and though he’s sore to the bone from having been knelt for so long already, Galahad leaves no room for refusal, his hands cruel upon Tim’s shoulders, the small of his back, becoming both that which nearly sends Tim toppling, and the only steadying presence for the man to lean into.

He still goes down a bit wobbly, legs askew, splaying wider than he’d like, and Galahad scoffs.

“Can’t keep your decency even a moment,” he accuses, tugging a fistful of Tim’s hair so the man is forced to take the preacher’s visage upside down. 

“Now, Father,” Brian rebuffs, stepping between Tim’s legs so he can lean over and press a finger under Galahad’s chin.

Tim’s breath, already troubled by the belt, hitches doubly as he watches Galahad drag his gaze upward, settling on Brian’s mouth. 

“He’ll never learn that way,” Brian explains cordially, thumb tracing the preacher’s trembling lower lip.

“Apologies, my Prophet,” Galahad breathes.

Brian smiles, “No need, Father. I gave permission to use him as you see fit, only I’d ask you to consider your actions before doing so.”

“O-of course.”

“Good. Now,” releasing the preacher’s jaw, Brian pulls away, and rakes his eyes over Tim’s state. “I think we can remove that, wouldn’t you say?”

He brushes two knuckles over the thick strap of bitter leather rubbing raw the corner’s of Tim’s mouth, and Tim nods, gasping.

“You’ll be good for him, yes?” Brian asks, making no such move to relieve Tim of his humiliation. “I’ve a few things to get ready, so I’d like you to stay put while I do that.”

Again, Tim nods.

“You’re for him to use, do you understand, love?”

Another nod, impatient, exasperated. Tim’s jaw, the back of his tongue, burn with the promise of something to fill his throat.

Another smile, then, properly licentious, this, and Brian looks positively adoring.

“Good boy. Now–” he unbuckles the belt, leaving it to hang around Tim’s neck, “not a word from you, understand?

“And, Father?” He smirks at the preacher. “Try to be gentle if you would.”

He is, initially. As Brian disappears from view, Galahad takes his place in front of Tim, a thumb hooked behind his own belt, the rest of his fingers draped lazily over his fly. Tim very much would enjoy undoing both impediments, particularly with his teeth—a trick he’s perfected what for all the times he’s ended up in this very position—but Galahad seems content to do that, freeing his cock and sparing Tim a moment to brace himself before the preacher prizes open his mouth.

Tim meets the intrusion of three fingers with a deft tongue, though that’s quickly pinned down, a hiss of “ _Serpent_ ,” spat appraisingly, then he’s doing all he can not to surge forward and swallow Galahad’s cock to the root, the preacher guiding himself in, an agonizing inch at a time. 

“There we are,” Galahad sighs, petting down the side of Tim’s bulging cheek. “Ain’t that better, son?”

Tim hums, the sound slurred, bliss so easily overcoming his senses as they narrow to the point of thick heat pushing toward the back of his throat. 

He gags—a wet, gurgling sound, that sends drool spilling down his chin. Galahad just laughs, just keeps pushing in

“Never prettier, is he, Father?” Brian pops back into view with an admiring grin, peering over the preacher’s shoulder.

“Could do with some tears,” Galahad grunts, pulling back to afford Tim a breath. “I prefer to see penance.”

“I’m sure he’ll oblige,” Brian answers, and snakes his hands around Galahad’s hips, a grip just shy of possessive.

One stays, the other, however, ambles inward on index and middle fingertip, then along the length of Galahad’s cock till they reach Tim’s mouth, stretched around the head and sucking diligently.

“Won’t you, love?” Brian goads softly, tracing his lips.

Tim means to nod again, really he does, but Brian must have given Galahad a bit of a shove, because his throat’s filled again suddenly, and both he and the preacher groan, a harmony punctuated by Brian’s own murmured accolades.

It all goes a bit fuzzy, then, Galahad giving over to a frenzied rhythm that goes straight to Tim’s own dick, the preacher gripping him by the hair and filling his throat again, and again, and again. So viciously good is each glide of rigid flesh over his tongue, Tim fails to notice Brian resituating himself. 

And then he’s crouched behind Tim, and terrible hands have made their way between his thighs, three fingers slipping int his trousers to stroke and squeeze at his cock.

“You may come, if you’d like to, Father,” this heard from such a great and impossible distance, Tim can’t begin to parse what Brian means. 

Until, one, two, aborted thrusts into his mouth, and Galahad pulls back enough to spill heavily over Tim’s tongue. 

And… 

More lost time, Tim’s head stuffed full of cotton and raw fucking _need_. He’s aware he swallows, though some still spills down his chin. He’s aware of his screaming knees, that there’s too much clothing in the way; both, at length, are remedied, by means of hands that aren’t his own lifting, cajoling, caressing. 

These formalities discarded, he’s next made to assume a similar posture, legs astride Brian’s, (on the altar? Yes it would seem so) and there’s the slick, smooth head of Brian’s cock sliding through his folds, catching his cock. And though with his back to Brian, he still gets one arm around the pilot’s neck, pulling his face flush to the back of his own. This earns him a select few bites, of course, and he responds in kind with a volley of moans.

“Hush,” Brian teases into the skin behind his ear. “I’ll have none of that, love.”

“F-fucking prick,” Tim spits.

Sharp. The wild sting of an arcing palm across his cheek, and Tim’s head snaps sideways, his eyes flying open in heady shock.

“You’ll shut that _filthy_ mouth of yours f’you know what’s good for you, demon.”

But Tim? Tim just fucking moans—laughs, too, when Galahad grabs him by the shoulders, all blazing eyes and snarling teeth.

“That’s enough, Father,” comes Brian’s soothing voice, spoken calmly against the nape of Tim’s neck. “He’ll behave. Or this,” and Brian guides his cock to rub at Tim’s, “is all he’ll have tonight.”

“As– _hah_ –s’if you two could hold out,” Tim snarks back, and the hand that strikes him this time is Brian’s, a snapping sting against his cock that sends the man arching and crying out.

“That’s better,” Brian says, replacing sharp palm with massaging fingertips, aided by Tim’s own slickness, the man shamelessly soaked.

“Don’t know how you don’t lash him,” Galahad huffs, gripping Tim by the chin, disallowing him to look away.

“I’m just as pretty with bruises, _Father_ ,” Tim replies, triumphant though he has no reason to be, really. 

“Now, now,” Brian interrupts. “There will be plenty of time for that later. I believe we were–ah, hm…”

Whatever the pilot says next, Tim hears none of it, rather too preoccupied swallowing Galahad’s tongue as the preacher moves in. He kisses like a shot, all burn and bristle and smooth heat. Combined with Brian’s fingers still working his cock, Tim’s as near to coming as he has been all evening.

“You gonna cooperate?” Galahad growls into his mouth.

“We’ll see,” Tim breathes back.

Brian sighs softly in his ear, an impatient sound, but Tim’s always enjoyed pushing limits. Despite what he wants to transpire, he refuses not to be an arse in some capacity.

“Would you care to have him first, Father?” Brian says, with a tone of voice Tim understands to mean he truly has very little control in this, and they’re just biding time before stuffing his cunt full, using him up till he’s sobbing.

“Mm, it’s only fair you should, my Prophet. I’ve already had that mouth.”

“Very true, and very generous, Father,” which would make Tim roll his eyes to the back of his head were it not for the way Brian positions his cock, promising to seat Tim fully if he makes even the slightest wrong move.

“Hm,” Brian hums, as if taking stock of Tim’s suddenly rigid posture. “I believe he needs assistance, Father. Would you be so kind–?”

Galahad’s hands are on Tim’s hips in half a second, not even enough time for Tim to gasp, though there’s plenty reason to do so as the preacher guides Tim down, the man’s thighs shaking, not with any effort to deny Galahad’s efforts, but because he might just collapse, otherwise.

The cock Brian’s chosen boasts far more girth than length, a foresight Tim vaguely begrudges the pilot if only because, how the fuck is he supposed to take Galahad, too? Such concerns sojourn swiftly to the back of his mind, however, once he’s sat completely in Brian’s lap, his cock swollen, twitching, untended by either set of hands that now roam his chest, nails scraping his nipples, his sternum. One—Brian’s?—goes for his throat, squeezing gently, another skirts down his naval, palming the slight bulge of his stomach.

“Christ, look at him.”

There’s such awe in Galahad’s voice, Tim can’t even think enough to comment on that bit of blasphemy. And when two of the preacher’s fingers trail down to caress either side of Brian’s cock, Tim gives himself over to nothing at all, unable to find a thought or sound or breath that isn’t mangled to incoherence.

His first orgasm builds like a ream of silk unfurling, no ebb and flow of crest and plateau, just a slow steady blooming as Brian rocks up into him, angled beautifully, till Tim’s nothing but a swell of heat at his core, seizing tight around Brian’s cock, spilling slick into his lap.

“F-feel free to join anytime, Father,” Brian mumbles, his face buried in Tim’s hair.

Something viciously primal thrills inside Tim at having even that bit of say-so stripped from his person, and he stares Galahad dead in the eyes as the preacher moves in. Even as a thumb slips in beside Brian’s cock, Tim keeps his challenging glare steady, goading, starving for something truly carnal.

What he gets, instead, is the brush of Galahad’s lips on his brow, then his nose, the cleft above his lip, the touch so strangely tender that Tim barely feels the preacher line himself up and begin to push into his cunt. 

Galahad makes a most delicious noise, halfway between a moan and a plea, somewhere vulnerable Tim’s never known before. Equally assailed by an intoxicating rush of endorphins, Tim takes what Galahad sighs and gives back his own reedy exhale, their un-met lips trembling against one another.

Like before, Galahad moves by increment, though whether for concern on Tim’s behalf, or that he’s a bit too overwhelmed, it’s hard to tell. Until he’s fucked all the way in, sheathed so tightly alongside Brian, Tim can feel his cock pulse. And the three of them are so still, struck by the raw serenity of three bodies met in such a testing of limits.

“Love,” Brian says, wistful as if he might just weep.

“M’okay,” Tim says, breathing for the first time since Galahad made his claim. 

The preacher offers no platitudes, nor would it feel right. He just pulls back, and Tim howls, head tossing back into the safety of Brian’s sturdy shoulder, the drag of Galahad’s cock like fire, the line between pain and pleasure hopelessly decimated. 

“He can take it,” Brian says when Tim feels Galahad go stiff. “Can’t you love?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tim pants. “Yes, _yes_ , God– _fuck_ –”

This time, when Galahad moves in, he’s not so gentle. A swift cut of his hips, and Tim forgets entirely he has lungs, his hands shooting up to claw ragged at Galahad’s biceps, the back of his neck. 

“Don’t you worry,” the preacher huffs, his voice gone to gravel, the rasp of a thumb on a lighter, the first hiss around a cigarette. 

He buries his teeth against Tim’s throat, sucks red, purple, black.

“Gonna use you right up.”

Tim comes a moment later. At least he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell, the two men moving so ruthlessly inside him, dissuading his body from coming down, from knowing anything but an obscene rhythm, the merciless pounding against the spot inside him that makes him sore to the roots of his teeth.

They are similarly insistent with praise, though varying in its application. Brian contents himself to holding Tim by the backs of his thighs, rocking him up and down ever so slightly whilst nibbling his jaw, occasionally imbibing a slick, panting kiss. Galahad is less constrained, pistoning into Tim without pause or regard, snarling into Tim’s mouth when he gains a chance to tame Tim’s tongue with his own, and leaving Tim’s collar a patchwork of bruises.

Again, Tim comes. And again. Body-wracking pleasure with so little reprieve between each climax. His cock, abused by fingers and nails to a startling shade of scarlet, aches and pulses with each thrust Galahad fucks into him. His chest burns where the preacher’s taken stock with his teeth. His arms and legs both scream, but he doesn’t even need those to stay upright. Utterly, entirely used, he feels hardly himself, and it’s _fucking_ fantastic. 

For how long he endures, he hasn’t a clue, but it still feels all too soon when Galahad gives a far too human little “ _hah_ ” and spills again, this time having the decency not to pull out. Brian stills, too, smiling against Tim’s throat as the preacher shudders, riding silently the waves of his orgasm, and filling Tim till his cunt spills over, slick and cum coating his inner thighs. 

Neither man pulls out, and Galahad brings one twitching hand between them, massaging Tim’s cock, his stretched folds, with his thumb and forefinger. 

“Perfect,” Brian murmurs. 

Tim opens his mouth to retort something clever, but is promptly stymied by Galahad. Still, the preacher kisses like that first shot of liquor after too long dry, and Tim regrets exactly nothing as he drinks and drinks and drinks his fill of the holy man’s sinful tongue. 

“You worship like the devil, Father,” Tim says, and earns a harsh bite to his lower lip.

“You’d do well not to test me, son,” the preacher replies, punctuating the docile threat with a jerk of his hips.

Tim hisses, grins, laughs. Delirious with sensation.

“That’s certainly a thought,” Brian chimes in, resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder and, as far as Tim can tell, staring right at the preacher.

“He has earned our adulation, wouldn’t you say, Galahad?”

The abrupt shift in moniker has the preacher wide-eyed, has even Tim shivering.

“At the very least,” Brian continues, nonplussed, “you could do to clean him up a little.

“I believe your savior once knelt in such deference?” This, no doubt accompanied by that most ascetic grin Brian is much too good at.

“Not… exactly, my Prophet,” Galahad breathes, “but–”

How he gets his face so swiftly between Tim’s legs is a miracle, truly. 

“I think I could find myself amenable to such lessons.”

And though Galahad proves himself suspectly fucking incredible at doing so, and though Tim is wholly exhausted that the idea of even one more orgasm makes him want to pass out for a week, he savors altogether too much Brian’s smile etched into his pulse point, immovable, and so deeply satisfied. 

So he supposes he can hold out, just a little bit longer.


	3. Ruined Orgasm—Brian/Galahad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha..... this one is... kind of emotional, actually. whore brain went brrrrrrr dom/dom except brian out doms everyone get fucked galahad, and then other whore brain went, lol what if... kinda sad
> 
> anyway idek <3

In turn, each touch is electric, though whether by result of the Prophet’s physical body, or that Galahad simply finds himself unable to compartmentalize beyond metaphor, remains to be clarified. A satisfaction he is unlikely to receive tonight. Among others. 

Still, the fact persists much in the way the Prophet’s hands do upon his hips, pulling and pushing, urging him into a slow, rolling rhythm of movement. Which is good, in its way, because the preacher’s own efforts gave out some minutes ago. Which is also unbearable, and quite where the uninspired comparison comes from, Galahad’s nerves alight like a holy choir, save one throat’s gone ragged, and the rush of pleasure has jarred right to the left of harmony, leaving him feeling scrubbed raw and ragged inside where his Prophet has laid claim, filled him again and again, and neglected to have him any other way. 

By all accounts, Galahad should have control in this. By every measure, he should have come several times over. And by the grace of his Prophet, he has no such privileges, his body and its suffering solely at the discretion of the one he would call holy.

And the Prophet just soothes him through it, laying back and watching serenely as he impales the preacher on his cock, again and again and again, Galahad’s own weeping steadily, an angry red color by virtue of the devilish little ring the Prophet has outfitted him with.

“Surely you won’t disappoint me so soon, Father,” said just at the completion of that first hour, when Galahad believed there might be mercy.

He holds no such faith anymore, their feverish communion now coming upon its third hour, and he is still no nearer to reprieve than a sinner carving psalms into his tongue.

Which the Prophet enjoys taking into his own mouth, turning occasionally kind and leaning up on his elbows to kiss Galahad through his tears. It started as penance, but now there is no such mask anymore, the preacher bared fully in his needy misery.

He might have foreseen this when first the Prophet bound his arms, but now the rope serves only to ravage his skin each time he tugs for release. If he could just have a second’s relief, any touch at all, but the Prophet only takes him harder, faster, so much deeper than Galahad would have ever thought himself capable, and the cock the Prophet has chosen for him is utterly daunting, besides, nearly as thick as his own wrist, and never not perfectly striking the spot inside the preacher that makes him howl, throw back his head, panting like a beast.

And it’s not merely the Prophet that keeps his hips flush. Despite the agony, the humiliation, the cruelty, he still believes there will come an end. His Prophet will visit upon him such pleasure as he has never known—whether by the indiscretion of his own hand or the few, shameful trysts in his youth—and all he needs to do is endure.

“How does it feel, Father,” the Prophet inquires, around when hour four knells its approach.

The preacher, at first, cannot quite reply. Splayed in the Prophet’s lap, his thighs shake and sting where his untended cock has leaked thickly on the skin, leaving drying streaks of come. He’s been afforded a second to sit still, to breathe. He is not, it would seem, spared the ridicule of the Prophet’s knowing smile, those amber, electric eyes flashing with what Galahad can only suppose is adoring malice.

“It’s rather hard for me to know, of course,” the Prophet continues, and jerks his hips up _hard_. “Your god had not grace enough to spare me my body.”

The moan that splits Galahad’s teeth and lips and throat is wholly animal in sound. Nothing may be reserved, here. Under his Prophet’s duress, he is flayed bare.

“Not much of an answer,” sighs the Prophet. 

Then, ever so fondly, “You’ll have to do better.”

He does, he tries so very desperately, straining on the Prophet’s cock, bearing down over and over, writhing and begging and praying. 

Hour five arrives with surprisingly little fanfare, Galahad stunned into an almost catatonic state such that, at first, he doesn’t feel the Prophet’s fingers stroke the length of his abused cock. They start from the base of the ring, to the flare of the head, searing exquisite sensation through the preacher’s core. 

It’s nothing near enough, and he comes all the same, a ruined thing of stunted, pulsing heat that gouges shocks and twinges up his spine, down his cramped legs, makes him spasm and twitch and nearly fall over, but the Prophet seizes him by one shoulder, his other hand still barely touching Galahad.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing out of Galahad’s mouth, a pitiful mewl of wrecked air and pleading. “M’sorry, I–I just couldn’t. I’m so sorry, my Prophet. Please _please_ –”

The kiss is light upon his lips, but visits upon the poor preacher more than he has agonized through all night. It ravages him to his heart, and all the way back up to his teeth in a stymied gasp.

"You are forgiven," says the Prophet. “I know you will do better.”

Galahad knows not whether to weep or exalt, so he does both, doesn’t even try to lift himself from the Prophet’s cock. His fate is clear. 

“I will,” he manages, at some point.

Already, the Prophet has begun his trials anew, this time with the preacher on his knees, legs spread wide, and his hands braced to the wall. 

“I will,” said over and again, in equal parts pain and awe, as he gives his body to his Prophet, takes what is given back to him.

It is, of course, a lie. No one may ever be perfect in the eyes of the Prophet. He knows that, but still he will try. And he will fail. And he will, again, try.

And he hopes the Prophet will, in time, forgive this, too. 


	4. Pegging—Ashes/Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this aint up to snuff by any standards and and I am also Exxxxhaustedddddd, but i wanted to get something out, hope its nice for yall <3
> 
> (i cba w italics formatting, ill fix it later, for now, i sleeps <3)

He’s just so easy, Tim is, once you’ve learned how best to break that coy facade of his. And Ashes has centuries to their aid, besides. Their own proclivity for reading any and every personage notwithstanding. Really, theirs is a relationship forged in the best kind of volatile mutuality—all suspicion and calculated scheming till one of them (always Ashes) gets that smarmy upper hand, and the other (always Tim) ends up knees to the floor, though not without a bruise or two to prove their mettle. 

It’s a show, a pantomime. Niceties of performance, because they both know what they want, but they’re much too much bastards themselves to just go saying shit like that outright. 

So it goes something like a stray look or comment, often snarky and embellished to goad the other. Or it transpires somewhat softer, subdued, a bit more finesse at play. Either way, the result is the same, and they’re both more than happy with that.

At present, it’s an amalgam of both, Ashes propping themself in the door to Tim’s workshop, just watching, admiring. Far too immersed in some tedious soldering endeavor, Tim proves oblivious to their presence until Ashes comes up behind him, drags his head round by a fistful of hair, and shuts up whatever protests had been weakly forthcoming with a biting kiss.

“ _Hah_ ,” Tim gets out, when Ashes ventures further down his throat, nipping unkindly at his Adam’s apple. 

“Wanna fuck,” they reply, phrasing it as both statement and suggestion.

“I–f _ffshi-shit_ , y-yeah, ‘kay.”

He’s always so pretty when he stammers, and Ashes ensures a diligent application of several hickies, leaving both his neck and speech a wreckage of bruised syllables and skin. 

“Up you get, then,” they eventually tease, though they allow him little of his own footing, content (and more than capable) to just haul him bodily to the nearest wall where they proceed to pin him, one hand across his throat, the other working its way through belt, button, and fly.

It takes even less time to get him wet and writhing against their fingers, and they almost debate getting to their own knees, but that’s not what they came seeking. Not now, anyway.

And with how easily he comes just like that, with only two of their fingers fucking him open and their thumb digging up against his cock, well no one would fault them for exercising so little restraint. 

“You good,” they ask, a firm whisper because they already know the answer, but theirs is a relationship that does better without nuance in this context, and Ashes is not in the habit of implied consent.

Besides, Tim’s loveliest when he’s begging, and no sooner have they asked, than he surges forward, licking desperately into their mouth as he grinds his cunt against the heel of their hand. 

“Take that as a yeah,” Ashes gets out between the fevered hunger of Tim’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “Y’s’please.”

“Oh, _please_ is it?” Ashes leers, even lets Tim pulls back with a furious blush, just so they can admire it.

“Well, who am I to refuse such politeness.”

“Oh, piss o–”

Which goes unfinished, Ashes shoving three fingers inside Tim and letting him throw his head back as far as he likes, an angle of pained ecstasy as they finger him just to the cloying edge of another orgasm.

“Mm, s’what I thought.”

With an ease that speaks to perhaps far too much practice in this regard, they’ve replaced their fingers with their strap in a matter of moments, having relieved Tim of only one trouser leg before hoisting him up, hands braced beneath his thighs so they can lift and lower him at will along the length of the cock they’ve chosen. His favorite, in fact, because they’re terribly too fond of him or something to that inane effect. 

And they have to employ little effort, anyway, gravity assisting most of it, though they relish for a spell just how fucking _nice_ it is to throw someone around. It’s been a bit of a dry spell between the two of them, and Ashes always does enjoy reacquainting themself with Tim's body, how gangly and fragile it can be, and just how delicious he looks on their strap. All slick and stretched and full.

“Should touch yourself,” they offer mildly, after he’s spent his air on a punched out groan. “I know you can’t come like this.”

“ _Nm_ , want… wanna try,” comes his answer, a half lucid octave of unsated need.

It makes Ashes _burn_ through their core, and all the way up to their tongue. They’re quick to supplant the fire into Tim’s gasping mouth, and all movement ceases, for a second, Tim slid down full on to the base of Ashes strap, and themself stood still, keen only for his mouth and how it yields to their own want.

“Better make it worth my while,” they eventually murmur. “F’you think you can come like this–”

“Yeah,” Tim licks his swollen lips, brings his hands up and around Ashes’ shoulders for emphasis.

Ashes grins, well and truly mean, “Well, you’ve asked for it.”

And he asks for much, much more, pleas turning swiftly to yelps and pants and howls of _more, more, more_ , as they fuck him, sending him jolting up the wall with the force of their thrusts. They think they see blood at some point, no doubt from scraped raw shoulder blades even through his shirt, but that just spurs them on harder, their nails digging into the backs of his thighs, their teeth latched across his pulse point. 

“ _F-fu-u-uck,_ Ash _es_.”

Out of everything, that’s what they enjoy best, that breaking point he always punctuates with their name. Like a prize, a trophy, and job well fucking done. 

It’s by no means the most indulgent orgasm Ashes has allowed him, but it’s still enough to leave him shaking and clinging weakly, half hiccuped sobs heaving up from his chest.

Perhaps… well, perhaps the wall was a bit of a bad idea, because they’d like to lay him down now and go about tending whatever fragility he’s imbibed before going in on round two, but he’s by no means heavy, and seems content enough to stay put, so that’s what they do, just hold him while he trembles in their embrace.

“Fuck that was good,” he eventually gets out, half laughed, half moaned.

  
  
"Yeah?" Ashes gives him a bit of a jostle. "Couldn't tell at all."

Still stuffed full and probably _very_ sensitive, Tim sucks in a sharp breath, and Ashes takes pity with a quick peck to his cheek. Then his mouth, where things turn decidedly heated once more.

"Wanna move this to a bed?" they inquire when Tim gives them space enough to speak.

"O-only if you let me have a go," Tim replies, and reaches a hand between them both, and, ah... yeah... perhaps that would be a good idea.

"Only if _you_ let me use that smart mouth," they fire back, never quite keen to let their mask lapse.

"Thought you'd never ask," Tim grins.

"Deal."

"Pleasure doing business with you."

Ashes snorts at that, tells him to shut up, and, if later, they happen to use his tongue till it's numb, well that's just what he's earned by right.


	5. Deepthroating/Face Fucking—Jonny/Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have realized theres no feasible way my brain can handle daily updates, so ur gonna get what u get kings, i have some Very Specific Things i def want to write, so it wont be like, a week between updates fjkdslf but yeah, spoons ammirite?

He really does enjoy these evenings, though his protestations might signal otherwise. Supine on Jonny’s bed, limbs bound at whatever haphazard angles the mate’s wrangled out of him—and with as little foresight to the restraint, itself (typically some of his several belts)—despite his desperation for touch, himself, Tim cannot deny he isn’t thrilled the moment Jonny drags him closest to the edge, so his neck just rests upon the sheets, and his head falls back, hair cascading down in its rivulets of chestnut much abused to tangles by Jonny’s insistent fingers. Which, having made docile any of Tim’s efforts to escape his prone situation (which he wouldn’t wish to, anyway), find their way to his throat, petting the length of it in much a lewd pantomime of… other endeavors, while two other digits traipse along Tim’s mouth, slowly prizing it open, lips by teeth by tongue.

Like Tim needs such a suggestion, or indeed preparation, though he’s ultimately grateful for it, the cock Jonny’s outfitted sparing no size in width or length. 

When Jonny first took Tim’s mouth like this, the gunner had found the sight from his upside-down vantage amusing, had even laughed. And for that, Jonny fucked him till he passed out from lack of air, and left his voice in shreds for days after.

Tim is very much looking forward to such aftermath tonight, doesn’t even desire to laugh to get that rise out of Jonny. 

Because he’s aching for it, Tim is, jaw burning at the hinges, starving for the weight across his tongue. It’s been too long since one of the crew took his mouth properly, and he’s been running it all week in the hopes of this exact result, and, asshole though he may otherwise be, Jonny is rather fucking excellent at this.

“You’re such a goddamn slut,” the mate praises, prizing slack Tim’s jaw, who employs just a slight bit of resistance, just to play along.

“You know that?”

What Tim knows is not to respond, elsewise Jonny’s going to put on teasing him longer, and he’s in no mood for delays. That, and the fingers stroking his tongue somewhat hinder coherent words, though perhaps a garbled little groan won’t hurt anything.

He gives it eagerly, and though he can’t see Jonny’s expression—just his legs, another hilarity Tim doesn’t comment upon—he knows he’s done right by it, because then there’s the head of Jonny’s cock, pressing down on the tip of his tongue. That, in itself, is intimidating enough, flared and heavy, and Tim lets loose another breathy gasp, surging up as best he can manage to close his lips around the meager offering and suck noisily.

Jonny’s groan is very encouraging indeed, as is the way his left hand moves down to anchor the back of Tim’s head.

It doesn’t last, nor does Tim want it too, and no sooner has he worked his lips two inches further down the shaft, than Jonny lets him go, the sudden shift in gravity disorientating Tim, but not for long. 

Because Jonny’s fingers are back, pulling his teeth apart as far as they’ll go, and feeding the whole of his cock into Tim’s mouth with a single, fluid thrust.  It’s too much, of course it is, and Tim relishes it, gagging messily, saliva spilling out the corners of his lips, and as Jonny pulls back, Tim gathers enough wherewithal to relax his throat.

It’s still not enough, and Jonny’s cock slides in with a flare of pain, white hot and fucking  _ amazing _ . It’s still in though, and that’s good enough for the mate, Jonny making a few aborted jerks of his hips that Tim can feel every millimetre of the way.

And it’s cut his air off completely, leaving Tim to bask in the flit and fizzle of the desperately dying bit of oxygen he’d pulled into his lungs. It’s just about made it’s way to his vision when Jonny pulls out, not completely, but enough to grant Tim a breath. Then another. And, third time’s the charm, isn’t it? And the mate fucks back into Tim’s throat, this time accompanied by both a heady moan and the burning weight of his palm over Tim’s throat. It stays there, as Jonny’s hips come to a standstill. Then, after a few seconds, gives a slow, appraising stroke, thrice up and down.

It’s with an exquisite thrill (one that races fully between Tim’s legs) that he realizes what it is Jonny’s doing. What he must be feeling, seeing. No doubt, it’s why he chose the cock that he did. No doubt, it must be bulging beneath the meager bone and skin of Tim's pale, long throat.

“Should fuckin’ see yourself,” Jonny says, as if he’s read Tim’s addled, swimming mind. “God, you look so good.”

He punctuates the accolade with a flurry of searing, pointed thrusts, and Tim just takes it, just fucking  _ delights _ in it. Jonny pushes this to about three minutes, at least Tim thinks so. That’s the longest he’s made it, though the addition of Jonny jerking himself off while sheathed in the gunner’s throat has made it a bit hard to concentrate on such menial things as inhalation.

To his credit, Tim endures remarkably well, doesn’t even start struggling until he’s left with almost no consciousness to do so. Jonny obligingly pulls back, a torturous process that leaves fire in its wake, ember and agony all the way to the pit of Tim’s stomach. And further, still, when he regathers enough air to remember how empty he is in other regards.

“Need me to fuck you now?” Jonny derides, apparently having caught the faint movement of Tim’s hips he couldn’t quite contain.

He has no shame in this moment, though, just gives this broken, ratty whine, and chokes on the sound the instant it’s out, his throat molten with pain.

“Pity,” Jonny says, once more guiding his cock between Tim’s teeth. “You’ll have to earn it better than that.”

And, well, Tim is nothing if not dutiful in this.

So he stretches wide his mouth, laves his tongue out and around Jonny’s cock as the mate slides home, once more, and, as Jonny takes his throat again, fits his hand around it, Tim rather forgets the rest of himself, entirely, once more content to be this, and only this, for as long as Jonny will have him.

Which, if prior instances are anything to go by, will be very long, indeed.


	6. Passionate—Tim/Galahad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brain........rot..........this image has been sitting in my whore head for weeks now, and this Fucking Song comes along and i just have to get this out or i'll go insane (and yes that song is the same one for the title of the most recent chap in gethsemane, yeehaw)

It’s befitting, really, that he should suffer like this, under duress of dichotomy, because nothing of his pursuit by the preacher has been wholly one thing or the other. Neither vicious nor subdued, kind nor cruel. 

That he should writhe as if numbed in frostbite, his skin a-sting with gooseflesh, though it’s breath like a brand that sucks sweetly his blood to bruise, hot and heavy panting, and the errant growl just to tie it all together. 

That the preacher’s tongue tastes of oak-aged wine and not the two-piece whiskey they’d been sharing but moments prior. That his teeth carve cashmere over blunt bone, clavicle to sternum to hip. That he spits such accolades, so many curses and threats, but he doesn’t stop, either. Tasting and touching and taking.

That for all the stumbling of it, he’s got Tim’s trousers wrenched free from one leg, the other pinned down, splaying him open, all soaking wet and needy.

And that tongue, heavy with a bouquet of maddened want and lashing endearments, laves like silk set to flame, a slow and messy perusal that leaves Tim trembling.

And then begging, as this repeats, Galahad staying bowed between his legs, his rough, chapped hands curled behind Tim’s knees, keeping him hobbled. As though he’d attempt whatever would earn him anything else save the preacher’s gorgeous, sinful mouth.

And he’s thorough, insistent, digging his nails in when Tim tries to squirm, and he wrings pleasure far too soon from Tim, nipping at his cock, humming something that sounds far too much like verse, and that thrills Tim, makes him arch his hips up, grinding his cunt against the preacher’s mouth, cutting short whatever holy words he thinks might slake him of this hunger.

And then it’s so much at once, hands every and anywhere, first at his throat, stopping his breath short before taking leave down his chest, rasping nails that resolve themselves between his ribs, counting each one like rungs of a ladder, descending them down again. 

Then it’s just the one hand, one palm upon his stomach, and Tim dazedly sees the other reach for the preacher’s belt, all well worn and dusty leather that, nonetheless, slides smoothly through the buckle. Is flicked aside. Then the hiss of a zipper, and, oh, Tim very much wishes he weren’t splayed supine. Would much rather be on hands and knees, or just the latter, because he can see the growing outline of the preacher’s cock through his trousers, and he would adore nothing more than to rediscover its length with his lips, pant hotly against the fabric, maybe even make Galahad come like that. Messy and ashamed, and certainly angry. Which is always just _so_ delightful, has reaped Tim many, creative agonies, in turn.

He is granted no such privilege, his dues to be something else entirely. Docile, almost. A mockery made of wedding night bliss, really, an image that stands starkly in Tim’s mind as Galahad bends over him, snarls against his lips, licks past smiling teeth, and with one hand strokes Tim’s windpipe, fingers fanning apart underneath his chin. The other, Tim can’t see, of course, but Christ does he feel it. Just the two fingers, middle and ring, petting at his entrance, dipping further each time, till they slide home and hook mercilessly inside him.

“ _Father_ ,” Tim groans, a filthy sound, all stuck in his throat and reverberating into the preacher’s palm.

“Shut your mouth, demon,” Galahad mutters, but any real threat loses itself somewhere along the patch of sensitive skin between Tim’s ear and the hinge of his jaw.

All pretense and no promise, so Tim moans as loud and as long as he likes, withstanding each serrated strike of Galahad’s tongue, the unrelenting pistoning of his no doubt sore wrist as he fucks harder, faster, his fingers into Tim, two then three, as deep as they'll go. 

“I said _come,_ god _damn_ you.”

And Tim knows he’s missed some prior instruction, the preacher bracing so viciously full and fast into him as to make him throw back his head and howl soundlessly, a messy and burning orgasm overtaking his nerves, razing them down to numbness. Save he’s twitching, shaking, so there must be something his body knows that he doesn’t.

“Gonna fuck you now, y’hear me, boy?” This, promised through Tim’s pleading lips. Because yes, _yes_. 

_God fuck yes, please_. 

“Till you can’t walk,” said as Galahad pulls free his fingers, guiding to their place the head of his cock.

“Gonna fill you up,” as he strokes from Tim’s entrance to his cock, up and down, smearing precum.

“Gonna take what’s _mine_.” 

It becomes so much at once, but so simple: a confluence of body and pleasure. It’s the rasp of denim to the insides of Tim’s thighs, the fabric of Galahad’s trousers chafing the skin, staining darker as the preacher fucks their hips flush, seats Tim on his cock without care or warning. 

It’s the searing fullness, Tim’s body clenching around too fast an intrusion. The need for so fucking much _more_ , his hands flying up to tug the preacher closer.

“Slut,” all breathy and too fond to have any real weight behind it.

There are other outlets for that, besides, and Galahad draws back, drags his cock free a few inches before bucking forward and making Tim’s spine do all manner of pretty, arching things.

This repeats. _Ad infinitum._ Skin to skin to hands, fingers, curling through, clenching, choking, petting, slick and hot and so tight so fast so much, but _not enough please, fuck me, Father, fuck me fuck me please please ple–_

For all his loquacity, Galahad is remarkably composed when he deigns to let climax find him. He groans, gasps, goes a bit redder across the nose, and stills, slid halfway into Tim’s cunt, and barely seeking anymore friction than that as he comes. 

Tim just watches, enamored of the preacher’s vulnerability, the weathered lines on his brow easing out, his hair fallen to unruly tangles over his fluttered shut eyes. His hard, snapping mouth slack around a moan, the corded muscle in his forearms twinging beneath sun scarred skin. 

How safe he looks in pleasure, unburdened by the woes he puts upon himself. And how eager Tim is to offer himself up to be that for the preacher, the body that sates another’s. Such that, when Galahad tries to pull out, Tim doesn’t let him. Seizes the preacher’s arms, yanks him down, swallows his tongue before chastisement may arrive. 

“Surely you have more to give, Father,” Tim murmurs. 

“Demon,” replies the preacher in kind.

Yet still he gives a weak jerk of the hips, and Tim sighs a small, hapless laugh, the thick, sticky heat between them doing terrible things to his desperation.

Never vicious, and never kind, Galahad repeats the action. 

“ _God_.” 

“He’s not here, Father.”

Which, any other time, would earn a slap across the face, but instead Galahad takes Tim’s penance from his body, alone, driving deeper with each thrust, renewed of blood and want.

“Will you ever repent,” the preacher asks, when they’ve spent themselves to exhaustion.

He’s lain atop Tim, still buried in his soaked cunt, and speaks in meager whispers where he’s put his lips to Tim’s pulse, itself a ragged thing at Galahad’s behest.

“No,” Tim answers plainly, not because it’s true, but because it’s what he knows the preacher needs to hear.

And though the moment threatens to grow too fond for Tim’s liking, he stays put, bared beneath he who once would have burned him to pyre ash for blasphemy. He supposes they scorch one another, still, and finds contentment in that. Dichotomies, after all, and, well, what’s a sacrilegious affair without a little brimstone? 

Rather, Tim thinks they're just warming up.


End file.
